Ashes of Grey
by Bananas102
Summary: It seems like he's always been here. Alone. He tried to find a way out, but every door and window is sealed shut and the only thing he's got is his fists, and he's swung until his hands are broken and bloody, but no matter how long he hits or how long, nothing works. The place is empty, but he's pretty sure the third room wasn't there yesterday. PLEASE REVIEW!


It seems like he's always been here.

Alone.

He tried to find a way out, but every door and window is sealed shut and the only thing he's got is his fists, and he's swung until his hands are broken and bloody, but no matter how long he hits or how long, nothing works.

The place is empty, but he's pretty sure the third room wasn't there yesterday.

* * *

Outside, there is only grey. Endless and unchanging.

Voices whisper and skim past the glass in the windows, but he can't understand them. Sometimes he feels like that should worry him, but for some reason he can't reach that emotion.

There seems to be a lot he can't reach. He can't remember anything, and he feels like he should, like he _has_ to, because it's important, but reaching towards anything hurts, because he fails every time.

* * *

He has a name. At least, he thinks he might, but he's not completely confident.

As days go by (at least, he thinks they might be, but he doesn't know), he wonders if he's a person. It could be possible, but like everything else, he can't be sure of that.

Things are beginning to appear now, one by one. The first was a book, old and leathery, with soft cream colored pages. It smells like oil and aftershave and something rugged, and he takes to it instantly.

It's blank, but he likes to run the paper through his fingers. The action seems to ground him a bit more, and he likes it.

Then a door popped up. It's not that he doesn't like the door itself, but what behind it. Echoing screams and fire, so much fire. It scares him, so he never opens it.

* * *

When he goes through the rooms again, he finds another one, with another book sitting in front.

This one is blue and the cover is slightly faded, and the paper is crisp and clean. It smells fresh and clean and it's pleasant and familiar, but he likes the first one more.

He eyes the door with distaste. Curiousity gets the best of him and he opens it, tense and wary of it's contents.

It's fire again and he can still hear screams, but this time it's different. He still slams the door shut, trembling in fear, and it takes him a while after, but eventually he realizes the screams were his.

He doesn't know what that means, and he doesn't really want to.

* * *

There's furniture now, but all of it's black, slick and shiny. There's something about the color he likes, but on the couch and tables and chairs it seems wrong.

Little objects pop up now too, but they're not books. Small strips of silver and gold, pieces of things he feels like he should know. They're kind of comforting so he doesn't mind them.

* * *

Though with the good things come the bad. He recently found a basement, but when he looks down the stairs, all he can see is pitch black and for some reason that scares him more than the doors do.

He carries the leather book all the time now.

The voices outside are getting louder, and now they whisper through the crack under the front door and anywhere else they can get to.

* * *

The house is soon filled with things, and most of them he doesn't even look at.

Lots of things in the house scare him and he no longer goes looking for things. He doesn't check the front door to see if it'll open, not anymore. He's afraid of what the voices are, and he's afraid they could get to him if he goes outside.

Sometimes he wonders if it would've been better if things had stayed the way they were. But then he wouldn't have his book.

* * *

It doesn't have words, but there are faint shapes on the paper, and he thinks he should be able to read them, but he can't. He spends hours trying to figure them out, because he gets the feeling whatever the book is trying to tell him is important, but he can't. He simply can't.

One day another new thing appeared. New things hadn't come in a while, and this one was certainly different.

It comes through the front door.

The door closes behind it, before the voices could come in, and for that he is glad. It's tall and shaped like a person, and he's positive it _is_ a person, but he doesn't know what to do with it.

It sees him, and it walks towards him. He starts, because usually new things don't move, and he wants to run, but he doesn't because the house is much scarier than the new thing. Then it starts talking, but he can't figure out what it's saying. But it's warm and inviting, and it smells just like the book he's keeping crushed to his chest.

The person tells him something and it goes back to the front door and suddenly he doesn't want it to leave. It tries to open the door but it won't budge.

He feels guilty for feeling happy about it, but he can't help it. It approaches him again and now he can tell it's confused.

"It won't open," he says, and it's the first time he's ever heard himself speak.

His voice is soft and broken and he doesn't recognize it. The person tries to say something, but he can't make out the words. It seems to understand this and it stops before moving past him and looking around.

It begins to explore and he follows, hugging his book. Every now and then it looks at him, gauging his reaction as it goes from room to room. Eventually it sees a door and the person goes to it.

He hangs back, and when it does open it, he back away.

It closes the door, displeased with what's inside. The person turns to look at him and then back at the door, and it understands that he's scared.

Even so, it continues it's search, most likely to try and find a way out. As soon as it discovers the basement, it makes a beeline to it.

"Don't!" he begs and the person stops cold.

He's frightened. So unbelievably frightened that he wants to curl up and cry. Only when the person approaches him, soothing him with murmured sentences does he realize he's shaking.

It gently pulls him into it's embrace, and he likes it. He likes it a lot. It calls him something and he pulls back abruptly when he understands it.

_Sammy._

* * *

The person more or less gets a grasp on the situation, which leaves him puzzled because he's been here longer and still doesn't understand what's going on.

Later, he finds that one of the rooms is gone. He starts panicking, and he can feel that the person doesn't know why.

"It's gone," he wheezes as fear wraps around his chest, "The room is gone."

* * *

More and more things are vanishing and soon it's just the person, him and his book, and the basement.

The voices have grown deafening, and the person can hear them now too. It wants him to go down into the basement, and he knows he probably should before both the person and the book are gone but he knows there's something down there, something that he doesn't want to see.

* * *

He doesn't have a choice anymore. The room is gone, and now they're sitting on the stairs, the person still trying to convince him to come down. He can only make out a few words.

_"Please...Sammy..."_

He looks at the person, and he swallows hard. "Will you come with me?" he whispers.

The person nods and he stands up, licking his lips nervously before descending into the black, the person following closely and offering silent comfort.

Its dark, so dark, and it's cold. He exhales and up ahead, there's a light, piercing through the black. Suddenly, there's a tug and he's walking forward, drawn towards the light.

The light is a circle, and sitting in the circle, is a man. He's chained, shackles around his wrists and ankles and they're all connected to the floor, pinning him there.

His skin is pale and flecked with cuts and scrapes and his chestnut hair is hanging in strings. His eyes were the most startling. Hazel eyes that carried the weight of worlds.

"Hello," the man says softly, and he's surprised when he can understand him clearly.

He swallows, and his grip instinctively tightens around the book. "Hello," he replies. The person is watching and listening intently.

The man smiles faintly, and it's warm and kind, though strained from unknown hurts. "You don't remember who you are, do you?" he asked quietly.

He's aware of the person's eyes on him, and he slowly shakes him head.

"I don't understand," he says brokenly. The man beckons him forward with his right hand, causing the chains to clink. He steps forward and kneels down in front of the strange man.

"Your book," the man begins, looking down at it, "It's been trying to give you the answers you've been looking for."

He frowns. "I can't read it. I've tried." The man smiles.

"That's because you've been too afraid."

He looks down at the book in his hands, and he slowly opens it up to the first page. The faint markings are still there, but now in the center is one word, clear as day.

_Dean._

"You've been lost and alone and afraid. But now, things are vanishing. And you can stay and go with them, or you can leave."

He shakes his head. "I can't. It's impossible."

The man nods. "Yes, you can. This whole time you've been able to leave, but your fear has kept you from finding what you needed."

"What I needed?"

"Me."

He cocks his head in confusion. "You?"

"Yes. You are me, and I am you. Before leaving this place, you needed to find yourself. You need to remember who you are, and the only way to do that is to leave."

The man holds out his hand. "Take my hand, and you can go."

He hesitates, looking over at the person. The person nods encouragingly and he takes a breath before reaching out and taking the man's hand. As soon as he does, the room begins to shake and groan.

"What's happening?" he gasps. The man glances around, eerily calm. "You're leaving." He looks back at the man.

"What about you?"

"I'm merely a reflection of yourself. I can't go."

He can feel himself fade away from the house, and the book slips from his hands. Just before he's gone he asks, "What's your name?"

The man smiles broadly. "You and I share the same name. You'll remember when you wake up."

* * *

He groaned softly and blinked a few times, squinting at the bright onslaught of light.

"Sammy?"

He had to wait a moment before a familiar face came into view, green eyes watching him closely.

Then it all clicked into place and his eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"Dean," he whispered.


End file.
